Something weird's up with my comments, and Diaryland won't let me in to check. Grr.

2003-10-08 - 9:08 a.m.

Clearly it's time to get the hell out of California.

I am so livid about these election results that it's hard to concentrate. Last night at the Kings' preseason game (which was fantastic, thankyouverymuch), they started showing early results about 8:30. That was it for me; I went for my first beer. When, by the start of the fourth quarter, it was clear that Austria's answer to Charleton Heston was going to be the puppet leader of this state, I was on my third. Did I mention that these were the 24 ounce plastic widenecks of Miller Lite? That I hate Miller Lite? And that they were $8.75 each?

We left the game a little early - hey, it was preseason and the Clippers, for god's sake! Once back in town, I went over to Scratcher's place, knowing he'd be watching the results. The minute I came in the door, he judged my mood and said, "okay, but I don't have any booze in the house". We ended up having a small argument. He didn't vote yesterday, which cheesed me off to no end, especially since he's one of the most intelligent, well-read men I know--just because you live a non-traditional life doesn't mean you're free of social constructs like voting, for fuck's sake!

Yeah. It was not the best way to handle things. I apologized and we turned off the TV. We ended the night by having a weird discussion about cigarettes and Chagall. Being Scratcher, he promptly pulled out two books for me to read. One's a sociological study of the appeal of cigarettes written by a Duke professor; the other is a non-fiction piece about a man who smuggled 800 pieces of (ethnically) Russian art out of the Soviet Union.

Did I mention that Scratcher smokes before? And that normally I hate cigarettes, but for some reason on him it doesn't bother me? I'm taking this as a very bad sign. I'm also taking it as bad that the man I thought was going to be a quick fuck has turned into someone who wants to take me to SFMOMA on Saturday afternoon so that we can argue about Chagall. From there, we're headed to Green Apple Books. All this and he's prime in the sack. God. And my mother would hate him, which these days just means bonus points. There are the tattoos (2), the earrings (2), the son (1), the divorce (1), the cigarettes (a pack a day), and the cut-off Dickies that function as shorts. He's my mother's nightmare, and right now he's all I can think about.

See, here's the thing: I've been with/dated men who could talk seriously about art and music and books before. I've been with men who could use a glance to pull me across the room. But I've never met one before who didn't know his power. He could have had me six ways on the floor last night, and instead he recognized that I was tipsy and extremely tired. He let me sober up, and then he sent me home.

Shit. Shit! SHIT!

To add to all the fun, I have a date with Geologist tonight. He's cooking dinner and wants to "watch movies". Yeah, right. Do men not realize that women saw through that euphemism back in high school? If you want warm sticky time, just say so. The last time we were together, he made a reference to "pleasuring" himself. Look, G, you're great, but go-around-the-point phrases are sort of silly. You've seen me naked. You're 30 years old. If you say that again, I'm going to run around the apartment screaming masturbation! Masturbation!